


The Rugby Lads

by WritingQuill



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Jealousy, John Plays Rugby, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining, Unilock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 00:02:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2792480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingQuill/pseuds/WritingQuill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock leaves class early and goes to watch John's rugby practice. There, he sees some playful lad rough-housing, and the green monster of jealousy grows. </p><p> </p><p>for ateliana on tumblr</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Rugby Lads

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the prompt: "Lestrade flirting with John and Sherlock getting super jealous and stupid and everything is just flowers and rainbows of fluff". 
> 
> I changed it a bit, because I've been wanting to write unilock for ages now, so hopefully you'll forgive my bit of creative license with the prompt n.n

On Wednesdays, Sherlock’s lab tutorial usually ended at five, which gave him just enough time to clean up whatever equipment had been used that afternoon, then run to meet John at Baker Street, which was, luckily enough for them, halfway between their campuses. This particular Wednesday, however, the class was released from the lab an hour earlier because someone ( _not_ Sherlock, of _course_ ) caused what could really only be described as a _minor_ explosion that burned Dr. Addams’s eyebrows off… a bit. 

Not that Sherlock minded, anyway. It was actually quite perfect, because it gave him time to do something he hadn’t been able to do all term because of his wretched and utterly pointless timetable — watch rugby practice. John was part of the rugby society at UCL, which played some friendly matches against other societies across London — even the one at Imperial, even though Sherlock had not been aware there even was a rugby society at his university before John pointed it out, at which point John chuckled at his disregard for school spirit — and gathered for practices every Wednesday from three to five. And after practice John was always ravenous, which was why he and Sherlock met at Baker Street to go to for Chinese every Wednesday at precisely six o’clock. 

So now, at quarter past four, Sherlock was getting off the tube at Regent’s Park station, and walking briskly into the park in the director of the cricket pitches, where sports teams would gather in the park, not necessarily to play cricket. He stopped by the Espresso Bar on the way and picked himself a a Flat White, cupping it with both hands to warm himself up a bit. It hadn’t been a particularly cold morning, but then noon brought torrential rains that made the city foggy and damp after it passed, lifting a chill from the pavements and making everything blueish. Sherlock didn’t particularly mind the bad weather, though it did make him wonder perhaps belatedly if the rugby practice might have been cancelled due to the weather conditions. But he need not worry, because as he slowly approached the pitch at around twenty-five past, he could hear the good-hearted yells and grunts from the group of men in the middle of it, pushing and tackling each other, falling on the ground and getting covered head to toe in mud. It was a barbaric sight, but oh how Sherlock enjoyed watching John play. 

He couldn’t make out John in this distance, though, so he walked closer, standing by a tree so he was not seen. He wanted to surprise John, and maybe get one of those brilliant white smiles he reserved only for when Sherlock did something brilliant. It was all warm eyes and mirth, and it made Sherlock’s insides melt. 

God, he was _pathetic_. 

Pining after his best friends of, what, almost fifteen years now? Truly pathetic. 

Sherlock _knew_. He _knew_ John would never like him _like that_ , and he was fine with it, really. He loved just being around John, especially in their flat, being quiet or talking about their classes or watching those inane action films John seemed so fond of. And it was enough for Sherlock, just being around John every day. Only sometimes… he couldn’t restrain himself, his thoughts wandered and landed in places not exactly fit for family viewing. And John in his muddy rugby kit was a prominent image in those fantasies. 

He could now make out each of the individual players. He knew some of their names, since John insisted in talking about them. There was Mike, Dimmock, Henry, and… was it Gavin? Gordon? He could never seem to remember that one. The players seemed to be just about finished with the practice itself now, huddled in the circle and probably doing a team-building chant or something equally nonsensical. And Sherlock watched. He saw John in his kit, his knees, forearms and hair covered in mud, his smile shining brightly as he laughed at whatever the player next to him was saying. His blonde hair shone in orange light of the late-afternoon sunset. The bare legs were strange to see in October, but it was normal for the sport. John’s legs were naturally tanned and beautifully toned, the thigh muscles not excessive, but _just_ right, just firm enough to be mouth-watering. Sam with his calves, which were a thing of beauty. If Sherlock were a romantic, he’d write epic poems about those calves, and the fine dusting of blond hair that covered it. Sherlock could stare at John’s figure for years and never be bored, always find something new. Such a sturdy, powerful body, yet also compact and gentle. Stunning. Absolutely beautiful. 

Sherlock sighed. _Pathetic_. 

It seemed the practice was finally over. Sherlock checked his watch. Ten to five. Not long now. He tossed the now-empty paper cup into a nearby bin and rubbed his hands together. John would just gather his things, and Sherlock would approach him.

He looked up to find John, and saw him standing next to one of the other players. The one whose name he could never remember. Gavin-Gordon was saying something that had John laughing nearly hysterically. John punched him lightly on the arm, and Gavin-Gordon chuckled, punching him right back. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. Apparently that’s what normal mates did? He could never tell, as he had no other friends other than John — though that girl Molly from one of his lab modules kept insisting they were friends for some reason — and his and John’s friendship could hardly be considered normal. It was clear that they were closer than the average male British friends, but that was just find. Wonderful in fact. Which is why Sherlock wasn’t really bothered by the banter he was witnessing as Gavin-Gordon and John stated almost rough-housing playfully. He could hear their laughter. Gavin-Gordon’s deep and slightly husky, and John’s high pitched, soft, and perfect. There was a pang on Sherlock’s stomach. 

‘Oi! Get a room!’ one of the teammates Sherlock didn’t know yelled at them, earning himself a pair of middle-fingers from the laughing men. Sherlock’s heart started palpitating fast. Not in a good way. _Get a room? What does_ that _mean?_ he wondered, as he pulled his eyes away from Gavin-Gordon and John, who were now chuckling and lifting themselves up from the muddy ground, and turned around, walking, then jogging, then full on sprinting, running away from the sight that made his heart ache and his stomach turn. 

He got to Baker Street in record time, slamming doors shut behind him as he got in and went up the stairs. Mrs Hudson would probably worry, but he didn’t care. He threw his coat and bag on the sofa, toed off his shoes, and went straight into his bedroom, slamming yet another door on his way in. 

He dropped on his bed face first, burying his nose on his pillow, and he was _not_ crying, why would he be crying anyway? He never cried when John left for his dates, even when he knew he was going on a date with a man. 

But this was different wasn’t it? This wasn’t a faceless, nameless idiot who he could forget about. This was a teammate, a fellow rugby player, someone John had told him about numerous times. This was a friend, someone John had things in common with, and it only reinforced how mismatched he and Sherlock were, and how it was obvious they were never, ever going to happen. 

About fifteen minutes of wallowing in self-pity later, Sherlock heard the front door open and close. Soft steps around the hardwood floor, most likely because John took his shoes off by the entrance and was now walking around in his socks. A bag dropped on the floor, the kettle was clicked on. More steps into the living area and then silence. 

Sherlock closed his eyes and grimaced at his pillow. 

‘Sherlock?’ John’s voice came from the living room? ‘Are you in? I know we have dinner plans, but I need a shower first!’ he said loudly, perhaps hoping that Sherlock would hear if he were in. Then more muffled sounds of steps, and the bathroom door closed. Sherlock sighed. 

He couldn't go to dinner now. Not when he couldn’t stop thinking about Whoever-His-Name-Is and John together, all muddy and giggly and disgusting. But he was going to have to face his flatmate eventually, and, as John always said, why leave for later something you can do now? 

So when John got out of the shower, wrapped in his threadbare, quilted, old man dressing gown, and drying off his hair with a towel, all pink and flushed from the hot water, Sherlock was waiting for him on the sofa, sitting upright and staring blankly at the space in front of him. 

‘Oh hey, there you are! Sorry we have to go out a bit later tonight. I am starving, but I bet Mr Chau woud have been a bit angry at my muddy arse sitting on his chairs,’ John said with a chuckle. When Sherlock didn’t join, he frowned. ‘You okay?’ 

Sherlock gulped. ‘I… I’m not hungry.So I won’t be coming to dinner tonight.’ 

‘What? Why not?’ 

‘I said, I’m not hungry.’

John scoffed. ‘You always come, even if you’re not hungry. Try again.’ 

‘Well, tonight I’m not in the mood. Perhaps you could bring one of your other _friends_. Gavin, perhaps.’ Sherlock hated how bitter and childish he sounded, but his mouth seemed to have disconnected from his brain and decided to have a mind of its own. 

‘Gavin? What? What the hell are you talking about?’ John asked, coming to stand in front of him, behind the coffee table. Sherlock couldn’t look at his face but he could tell John was confused and a tad distressed. 

‘Look, you don’t have to have dinner with me tonight just because it’s a weekly… thing,’ sighed in annoyance because he almost said “date”, ‘especially when there might be something better for you to do.’ 

John walked around the coffee table so he could sit next to Sherlock on the sofa. He laid the towel over his lap and grasped it with both hands. ‘Sherlock, you are making no sense.’ 

‘Yes I am! No need to hide anymore, John. I know!’ 

‘Know what?’ 

‘About Gavin!’ 

‘Who the fuck is Gavin?’ John asked, almost yelling. 

‘Gavin, Gordon, whoever his name is. I saw you two in the rugby practice today! Pulling at each other and laughing. I figured it was just normal mate banter, but one of the other players told you do get a room, and I got it,’ Sherlock explained, growing quieter and sounding more pathetic with each other. Hateful. 

‘What? Do you mean… Greg?’ 

Sherlock looked up. ‘I don’t care what his name is, John.’ 

John’s eyes were wide. ‘Sherlock…’ 

‘No, it’s fine. I—‘ 

‘Sherlock, wait. Please, just. God, this is a mess. And a ridiculous misunderstanding,’ John said, placing a gentle hand on Sherlock’s forearm. ‘I don’t know where you got all that from, but Greg and I really are just mates. He has a girlfriend, for God’s sake! And even if he didn’t, I wouldn’t be interested in him.’ 

Sherlock gasped. Feeling now even more pathetic now that John explained it because his ridiculous reaction to _nothing_ was going to make his feelings obvious. Shit. 

‘Oh, that’s—‘ 

‘Wait, I’m not finished. I’ve been struggling with this for a while now, and I suppose after that little display of yours, it might not be as one-sided as I thought it was.’ He chuckled, a bit sadly, and Sherlock’s head snapped. He stared at John’s face with wide eyes for what seemed like hours. 

‘One…sided…?’ he asked. ‘You mean…’ 

John cleared his throat. ‘Yeah. Hm. I would have preferred to at least be wearing underwear when I said this for the first time, but there’s no time like the present,’ he said with a wink. ‘I seem to have fallen quite desperately in love with you, Sherlock Holmes. Even though you are a ridiculously mad man.’ 

Sherlock gulped yet again. John’s face betrayed nothing. No deceit, no anger, only pure, unadulterated fondness. Love. 

_Love_. 

John cleared his throat again, nervously this time, and Sherlock realised he’d retreated into his mind palace. And had not yet replied to John. Shit. 

‘Sherl—‘ John began, but got cut off by Sherlock’s lips bumping right against his in a not-so-graceful press. With a bit of a adjustment, the press turned into kisses, which turned into Sherlock gasping breathlessly, his skin feeling too hot for his body, and his lips _needing_ to be on John _right now_ and possibly _forever_. John’s tongue flicked against his lips, and they all but devoured each other. It seemed like years of unresolved tension suddenly melted between their bodies, and Sherlock dragged a hand under John’s robe, feeling his warm skin, not from the shower anymore, but from _this_ , _them_. It was all Sherlock could do not to cry right now, because this was too good, too perfect, too— 

A low rumble made them stop. They were both panting hard, breathless as they rested their foreheads together. John’s hand playing with the curls on the nape of Sherlock’s neck, and Sherlock’s were buried inside John’s robe. The rumbling noise came up again, and John giggled. The most precious sound in the world, and Sherlock wanted to drink it up. 

‘Definitely time for food,’ John said. Sherlock almost whined. They couldn’t go out now! They had to do more of this, and maybe more of _more_. A look at Sherlock’s face, and John seemed to just know. ‘Yeah, I don’t want to leave either. I guess we’re gonna have to order in…’ he said in a low voice, pressing his lips against Sherlock’s ear, kissing his earlobe, making the very ground underneath Sherlock’s feet disappear. ‘And maybe eat in bed…’ 

‘Yes…’ Sherlock moaned.

With another kiss to Sherlock’s ear, John got up to order the food. And much, much later that night, they sat naked in bed, covered in sweat, grinning widely, and ate cold leftovers.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think in the comments, or on my [tumblr](http://writingquill.tumblr). I also have a [personal blog you can check out](http://bagginswatson.tumblr.com). 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Happy holidays <3


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